


staring at a corner

by nap_princess



Series: I love crazy [2]
Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Death, Depression, F/M, I know what the summary sounds like but I write tragedies not sins, I wrote this fic for me but y'all can read it if you want, Minor Character Death, Norwegian Wood AU, References to Depression, Self Harm, plot over romance, sprinkles angst on fic like that salt meme, this fic is more about mental health than romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 00:57:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nap_princess/pseuds/nap_princess
Summary: "You're on fire," She had said, and it occurs to him now that she had said it because he was a liar– HansElsa with mentions of JackElsa, 1/3 Norwegian Wood AU(so y'know, a disclaimer on death and depression)





	staring at a corner

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Candles](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/436906) by Daughter. 
  * Inspired by [Norwegian Wood](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/436909) by Haruki Murakami. 



> Notes 1: (happy reads Helsa fic), (sees reblog post about lack of Helsa), (guiltily reads fic while avoiding writing my own damn Helsa story)
> 
> Notes 2: Has anyone here read Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami because, my dudes … Can we just talk about the author for a bit? He got mad that his six-digit reader count rose to a worldwide count and fled from Japan because he didn't like that he got 'too famous'. What a champ, what a guy, speaks to me. Also, I love it that Murakami-sensei names his books weird titles and after songs. Never met the dude but I love him already.
> 
> Notes 3: What have you done to me, serlut? Suggesting me Jelsa fanfics and making me low-key ship it. I know have a Jelsa poster in my room, are you proud? Have you seen the fanart? It's quite popular, the one where Jack is dressed in Hans's clothes. If I squint hard enough, I can picture Hans instead of Jack. It's basically a two-for-one deal. I'll never stop multi-shipping.

**staring at a corner**

* * *

 

* * *

"You're not lying, are you?"  
"I like to think of myself as an honest man,"

– A conversation between Midori Kobayashi and Toru Watanabe,  _Norwegian Wood_ , page 66

* * *

He's thirty-five when he finally realises his mistake. It hits like him a train, making him dizzy.

He recalls his youth. He recalls taking a lot things for granted; his time, his studies, a girl.

He had a bad reputation, he was the kind of boy who couldn't keep friends and would not only mess up a girl's lipstick but also her mascara. He was the kind who formed quick attachments and even quicker endings. That fact scared a lot of people. It probably scared  _her_  too.

Actually, that may be what drove her off. But he was too young and stupid to see it.

"You're on fire," She had said to him long ago, and it occurs to him _now_ that she had said it because he was a liar.

.

.

.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

* * *

He recognised her; a face that haunted his past. Just when he thought he could run away from it all after traveling miles and miles away from home to study somewhere far, far away.

She was just sitting with her ankles crossed in the dimly lit room, minding her own business, and he was staring at her. It was a college party, for heaven's sake and she looked so out of place; everyone else was mingling and drinking and getting pissed drunk, yet here she was – staring at a corner.

She didn't even have a stupid red solo cup in her hand. She was just … there, fiddling with her long sleeved sweater; defenseless and open and alone. He just saw it all … and took it.

He felt the music vibrate from the bottom of his feet all the way up to his head, the music was so loud. Not that he was complaining, the beat was good, the kind where you don't even need alcohol to enjoy the moment. Plus, he likes loud parties because the people and the music were louder than his head.

"Hey!" He shouts over everything, even his thoughts. He makes sure to stand over her, just so she would know that he was talking _to_ her, _at_ her.

She blinks, pulling herself out of her daze, then stares at him. The emotion creeps on her face slowly, like falling asleep before it hits her and her expression morphs, blue eyes fluttering with disbelief. Just as he had expected, she recognises him too.

"Elsa, it's me, Hans." He tells her. He should have realised then that giving her the opportunity to call him by his name was foolish of him (but he's come to realise he's such a fool).

"Hello, Hans." Elsa greets back, polite as always. At least, that's what he thinks she says, her voice is too mousy against the wave of voices singing. But he's certain her blue eyes are still trained on him, reading him as he is with her, prying his soul for some answer on why he's here of all places.

Blue. Incredibly blue. Breath-takingly blue. Blue like cracked ice under bare feet –

A slow nervous smile spreads on his lips in response to her greeting. Maybe he shouldn't have smiled? Maybe he should have done the opposite?

.

.

.

 _What was I thinking?_  A question Hans would ask himself later as he's sobering up. His mind is still hazy, but he thinks he already has the answer. And that is, he wasn't thinking at all.

* * *

Elsa and Hans, Hans and Elsa – No matter how Hans had tried to arrange their names, no matter how he spun it, it never sounded right. Him and Elsa, they've been acquainted since high school but it never felt okay for just the two of them to spend time together.

Hans knew Elsa from a friend, an acquaintance, really – Jack Frost. Jack was Elsa's boyfriend and Jack was Hans's teammate on track-and-field. 'Was' because Jack's dead, long gone, young and immortalized by age seventeen. He almost felt like an icon more than a person, like Elvis or Marilyn Monroe or Bob Ross. Jack Frost just didn't sound real,  _he sounded like fiction._

But he is real, _was_ , at least, before his time had run out. As much as Jack loved to run, it seemed like even he couldn't outrun death. He had died saving his younger sister, Emma, in a skating accident.

Hans believed Jack never should have died. In fact, the redhead believes the two siblings never should have gone out to that damn lake to begin with.

* * *

"So you're an introvert, right?" Hans asks after a week of their ... friendship (an arguable term). He found her in the library, tucked in a corner. It felt like her own private, dark nook.

"Uh-huh." Elsa answers Hans back and takes this as a cue to slip a bookmark between her pages and retire her reading.

Elsa was always the kind to have her nose buried in a book. Hans knew that much, and they weren't even close to begin with. When Elsa's not reading academic books or non-fiction, it is often fiction books that not many have heard off. So Hans is  _very much_ surprised to find her reading a widely known book one day – _Norwegian Wood_ by _Haruki Murakami._

"So that means you don't like people?" Hans continues talking, drowning out his thoughts. Ugh, he hates libraries, they're so … silent.

"I like people." Elsa corrects him. "I just don't like being surrounded by a large number of people. It tires me out."

"Don't you get lonely being by yourself?"

She corrects him, "There's a difference between 'being alone' and 'being lonely',"

Hans blinks at her, emerald eyes focusing, noisy head trying to wrap his thoughts around it.

"Well then," He says like he's got her all figured out and connected the dots. "Why did you even come to the party if you knew you wouldn't enjoy it?"

"Well, for one, I went with my housemates, and they're extroverts." Elsa explains and only gets a raised eyebrow in response. It encourages her to tell him more. "Rapunzel and Ariel can't really do a lot of things alone. They need people beside them. Something about being with a friend just encourages them to do things more productively. They can't even go grocery shopping alone. We always waste about five hours in town."

"Five hours?" Hans repeats, to say he's shocked is an understatement. He thinks Elsa has too much free time on her hands. "You spend five hours buying groceries?"

Elsa waves her book in the air like she's about to smack him for asking such a ridiculous question. "No, I said we spend five hours 'in town', not 'in the grocery store'. We get sidetracked with new eateries and chocolate cafes and little things on the way."

"You're a strange person," He tells her. And Hans is not just saying this because he truly finds her odd. It's also because they've never once spoken about their past since starting whatever this is. It's like … It's like Elsa wants to forget about Ja –

"And what about you?" Elsa's words slice through his thoughts. This time it's her turn to raise an eyebrow as she asks questions.

Hans touches the side of his face, his sideburns, not wanting to get into detail. "What about me?"

"Exactly!" Elsa exclaims, forgetting where she is as she points an accusing black painted finger at him.

More eyebrow-raising from his side, but he's glad someone's making noise in the quiet library.

"I don't know anything about you." She says and he laughs.

"It's best you don't know much about me." He answers.

* * *

He finds her looking like hell in that same little nook two weeks later.

"What's wrong?" It comes out of his mouth before he can even think, which is so unlike him. So rarely does his silver tongue detaches itself from his cunning mind.

"My essay." She answers lowly, trying not to disturb the peace in the library yet also trying to conceal her croaky voice. She's been crying, alright.

"Did you not submit it on time?" Hans asks, though, if he's honest, he doesn't really care about his grades all that much. He only came to this specific university because he thought no one he knew was going here.

"I did." Elsa replies, rubbing her blue, blue eyes. He hates seeing the sadness.

"Then what's wrong?" He asks a second time, sliding into the seat next to her. He hesitates to touch her. A comforting pat on the shoulder sounds like a horrible idea. What if he taints her (even more)?

"It was so shit." She sobs and it occurs to him that he's never heard her curse. It's almost funny. He'd never imagine her saying anything vile or venomous.

"Elsa –"

"No, you don't understand, Hans." She mutters.

And  _maybe he doesn't_. But he knows her enough to know that when she's dedicated, she puts one hundred percent of herself into something; essays, group projects, family, friends, dead lovers –

Elsa's voice shakes further as she tries to explain herself, "I spent forever typing and retyping the same line over and over again until I left myself with no time to write everything else. It's _so_ bad. I think I'll fail for sure."

"Elsa," He actually touches her this time, a comforting hand on her pale shoulder. " _Elsa_ , you're one of the most brilliant people I know. You're just stressed, that's why you're doubting yourself."

But she only rejects his logic by shaking her head and crying into her hands. That sparks something within him for some reason.

"Pack your things." He commands, standing up.

Elsa stops distressing. "Where are we going? You just got here."

"You need fresh air and this stuffy library isn't doing you any good. Come on." He wraps clever fingers around her long-sleeved wrist. Funny how one touch can cause him to want more. First the shoulder, then the wrist.

She blinks her long, wet lashes in confusion. "Hans?"

He needs to get out of here. Please.  _Please, please, please_. He doesn't like it here in the library, it was too quiet, there was no music and barely any talking. His head was louder than this. Much too loud.

"Let's get out of here, Elsa."

* * *

Hans finds Elsa crying again not even three days later. It's understandable since most of this semester's essays are due, but it still brings an ill taste to his mouth. The deadlines are so close that it's not even right around the corner, you'd blink and you might just miss the due date.

"Elsa?"

"Oh … hi, Hans."

It becomes unbearable for him to see her cry. Fuck, why did he come back here? He  _hates_  this place.

"You need to get out of the library." He finally says, studying her face harder than he studies his textbooks.

"I can't," Elsa replies and it irks him. Hans thinks, unlike him, Elsa will always have a choice, she just doesn't want to choose. "I need a quiet place to study. I can't do it at home, I love Ariel and Rapunzel to bits, they're great friends but they are _so loud_ , I can't study."

He sighs and runs a hand through his red, red hair before telling her, "Come over to my place then."

It takes Elsa awhile to gather her thoughts. "What?"

"I live alone in an apartment, you could say it's less stressful than here and at your house."

"I … I don't know." Elsa bites her lower lip. "Would I intrude?"

"No." Hans answers in a heartbeat. "Definitely not. It's too quiet there."

.

.

.

The next time he sees her, she rushes into his arms and he happily accepts her sudden affection; rubbing her back with warm hands and long fingers. It's not even a hesitant pat on the back, it's a hug.

"You were right!" Elsa exclaims into his shoulder.

"About what?" He asks, enjoying the feeling.

"My essay! I freaked out over nothing, I got a first!"

"Does that mean you'll stop coming over?" He dares himself to ask. Hans hears Elsa squeak and he finds everything funnier now.

When she pulls away; her face colours, she's embarrassed or mad or both, but that doesn't stop her from shoving him hard. He only laughs at her attempt to push him away. A single thought entered his mind, _As if you could get rid of me that easily._

* * *

They decided that studying in Hans's room was much too cramped as the library; stuffy and closed and caged. They needed fresh air, open spaces, some freedoms, so they decided to take strolls together; walks with no destination in mind.

They would talk about almost anything and everything except the past, always side by side. Most times Hans would let Elsa lead (or maybe he just didn't have a direction to go in his life?) and she would be fine with that, sometimes grabbing Hans by the arm and leading him because he 'walks too slow for someone with long legs'.

And although the campus was large, it was coverable and thus confining too. Soon, they walked every inch of campus, and, once again, they felt like caged birds.

* * *

"Let's not go back home during the Winter break. Living there is a waste of time," Hans says between the aimless walking and the sinking sun.

"Why are you telling me this?" Elsa questions him, heart beating fast. Although she thinks he is right, she doesn't want to believe him. It's not like she can run away. It's not like she can leave her family behind and flee her hometown.

"Why?" He repeats, humming, looking at the sky, there isn't a plane in sight. That's a good thing, maybe. "I guess because … I love you?"

Her eyes widens and she turns sharply to see him, read his face, look into his soul, seek every truth that is him. "Are you telling the truth?"

He only smiles at her in return, showing teeth. With the months spent with him, Elsa learns that Hans Westergaard is the type to show but never tell (so what is this?)

They're letting themselves get distracted, they're letting their young hearts carry them. But it's lovely. It's luxurious. It's Hollywood and Paris and London mixed together. It's a blindfold covering their eyes and a voice telling them to jump into the unknown.

* * *

It's always dark when they're together. It's always quiet too; so silent that they can both count each other's heartbeats and listen to each intake of breath and watch the world go by like nobody was watching.

But somebody was. There  _always_  was somebody.

"Elsa," A voice calls – girlish and familiar.

Elsa snaps out of her trance. She turns and finds herself staring at her sister.  _Anna_. Elsa's face colours, she can't believe she forgot her sister's existence.

"Anna?!" Elsa gaps. 'Surprised' doesn't even cover how she's feeling. She scoops her baby sister into a tight embrace. "What are you doing here?"  _At my college? Far away from home?_

"I heard from Mama and Papa that you didn't want to come home for Christmas so I thought I'd try to convince you otherwise … or visit if I'm unsuccessful," Anna answers after returning the hug and stepping back, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

"You drove all the way to see me?"

"Of course, I love you."

Elsa immediately feels bad for forgetting to care about Anna's feelings. Anna is her sister and Elsa shouldn't be forgetting her sister. She should be doing the opposite, showering and loving Anna to bits. Elsa was supposed to be cherishing Anna like how Jack had cherished Emma. Once upon a time ago, they were inseparable and understood everything about each other but now …

Elsa couldn't even find the things she used to love worth it anymore. And, for some reason, the idea of cherishing Anna felt like a fear because that would mean a bigger hit if Elsa were to lose Anna. And feeling lost and losing a close person was something Elsa didn't want to feel. Not again. Not after Jack.

"Is it true?" Anna asks, cutting straight to the point.

"Is what true?" Elsa picks at her skirt, hoping it served as a good reason to not meet Anna's eyes.

"Are you hanging out with Hans Westerguaard?"

Elsa feels a tug of guilt in her stomach, it's telling Elsa not to tell the truth. But she does anyway. "I … Yes. I mean, we went to the same high school, I don't see any harm in connecting with old friends. Is there … Is there a problem with that?"

_Please don't answer that._

"Oh, Elsa." Anna only sighs. "You shouldn't."

Elsa can do nothing but stare, deep blue challenging Anna's teal ones, her hands immediately tugs on her sleeves out of nervousness. "You don't know him like I do."

A frown pulls on Anna's lips as she asks, "Are you sure about that?"

Elsa doesn't answer, choosing not to say anything but the look on her face says  _something_. She doesn't want to fall for anything she isn't afraid of.

* * *

"You're too old to be so shy," He tells her when he sees her hesitate.

They're dressed in their warmest Winter wear, opting to stay back for Christmas break to be with each other. Elsa had made the excuse that she needed to take the opportunity to get a couple of things under her belt while she still had the free time. Hans, on the other hand, had decided that going home would be a waste of time. It was better for him to work part-time on campus or around town, stating how money is tight in a family with more than a baker's dozen.

But, in truth, they both knew that they were avoiding the inevitable. They know they shouldn't have. It's foolish of them; their families were worried, missed them, even, and here they were, playing and 'falling in love'.

"What?" Elsa hums. Snow blankets the ground around them and snowflakes are caught between eyelashes, she can see his breathe but she can't connect his words.

They're on the snowy ground and tired – tired of chasing each other, tired of cramped spaces and tired of pretending.

"You're too shy." He repeats, feeling like she's a petite school girl, before she acts bold.

Elsa looks at Hans and thinks, if she squints hard enough, maybe she can picture red locks, brilliant green staring and freckles instead of snowy white hair, endless blue eyes and a dead boy. She runs her small hands through fiery hair and thin lips, letting her fingers touch every inch of his face; his strong cheekbones, pointed nose and long lashes, stupid sideburns.

"They aren't stupid." Hans says, bringing her back to reality, and Elsa realises she had said it out loud.

Regardless, she doesn't apologize for it (and she doesn't know why).

* * *

"I miss him, Hans. I miss him so much." She sobs. She was vulnerable when it happened (but then again, when is she not vulnerable?).

.

.

.

 It's dark when they're in his room, side by side; breathing synchronised, sunlight peeking. The sky is barely awake as they are. They're blinking, words falling, sleep lacking.

.

.

.

She lays her forehead against his chest, unable to do anything but cry and feel weak. He can't do anything either, only holding her by her shoulders and hoping he's strong enough to support her (but is he though?).

Whatever they have, if one can call it 'love', it's hard to describe. It's … It's –

It's the rubbing of his freckled cheek against her pale hair. It's warm hands holding her and longer fingers clutching onto the hope that she doesn't slip through his grasp like smoke and sand. It's pretending a seventeen year old boy's death was unavoidable.

* * *

Elsa had always thought Hans was tall. She swears  _every_  time she sees him, he gets taller (or perhaps life is just shaving her down?).

But this time –  _this time_  – he looks tiny. Shrunken like he's ashamed and Elsa thinks that's wrong. Wrong wrong wrong, because Hans is a person with many bad habits; he is sarcastic and selfish and egotistical, however, he's  _not_  the type to doubt himself or ever think poorly of himself. It might even be said that he has a God complex. So seeing him like this ...

"Hans, is something wrong?" She asks him, taking his gloved hand. It's the last week of their Winter break and Hans hasn't been himself since they finally opened up about Jack.

Hans's gaze slides up from a calendar app on his phone to her beautiful face. His green eyes are empty and he's staring just a little to the left of her ear.

"Hans?"

"What? Oh – no. Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all, Elsa. I'm just spacing out, that's all." He answers after a moment like he's just made a connection she had asked him something.

It's two seconds too late. She catches a glimpse at his phone and today is – Today is the anniversary of …

This is when her trust starts failing.

.

.

.

Elsa keeps getting distracted.

She keeps doing small things like flipping to pages of her book without reading the words and writing down random things that comes to her mind and making tea for herself only to forget to drink it.

This wasn't good. She was procrastinating. She wanted to work, get those grades, but her concentration just wasn't there and she didn't know how to cure it. Her anxiety was killing her. There was no other way to escape it. Seconds felt like days and minutes felt like months and hours felt like years. She's fed up with all this waiting and self-torture.

Finally, Elsa decides for herself that she'll call Anna so that they can talk in person. She needs to know.

.

.

.

"He's guilty, Elsa." Anna explains. The strawberry blonde had said it so casually over sips of hot chocolate like it was a normal discussion, like the weather.

"Guilty?" Elsa echoes, black fingernails drumming against her own cup of hot chocolate.

"Yes," Anna says slowly.

"Is he feeling guilty or is he guilty of something? I … I don't understand." Elsa says, sounding like a scared little girl.

Anna's face changes in a serious one. She reaches over the table, holding Elsa's hand for emotional support – emotion support Elsa didn't know why she needed.

"Elsa," Anna calls. "Hans was the person who suggested the lake."

"... The – the lake?" Elsa croaks, feeling the air thicken. She. can't. breathe.

Anna sucks in a gulp of air as if she's in pain, "The one Jack fell in."  _The one where he drowned in cold icy waters._

"No." Elsa pulls her hand away, sleeve slipping backwards and revealing symmetrical lines. "No," She repeats herself, shaking her blonde head. "He –"  _Hans_ , she can't say his name. "– would have told me."

Anna responses, "But did he? Did he though?"

Elsa doesn't answer, giving Anna space to fill.

"Don't you see, Elsa?" Anna asks (demands).

No.

"Hans is guilty. He involuntarily ki –" Anna can't finish her words. "He caused you so much pain and now he's using you."

_No._

"H – He's not using me." Elsa pulls back the sleeves of her sweater, fiddling with the cuffs. She doesn't want to be here anymore. This was stupid. She was stupid. Why did she think this was a good idea?

"Then he's lying to you." Anna argues.

"But he hasn't said anything!"

"He hasn't told you the truth either!"

And Elsa suddenly thinks back and remembers –  _"Hans, is something wrong?" "Oh – no. Nothing's wrong. Nothing at all, Elsa."_ But everything was wrong, especially them.

* * *

She starts avoiding him.

.

.

.

"Elsa!" Hans yells.

 _Don't turn around._  She tells herself, ducking her pretty little head, ignoring him and the people staring at them.

"Elsa!" He shouts again, louder this time.

Hans picks up his pace, not use to staring at Elsa from the back. He's always been so used to walking side by side with her.

"What's your problem?!" Hans explodes, catching a hold of her sleeve. His grip is tight, he doesn't want to let go, he makes that abundantly clear, but she pulls away anyway and he sees her flinch at his contact with her skin.

"What's  _my_  problem?!" Elsa barks back. She's _too_  loud. "You already know what's my problem!" Then she spins around.

" _Hey_ ," Hans growls but she ignores him, glaring at the ground and continuing her fast pace. He's red in the face when he catches her arm again, he's not giving her the chance to run away from him. "Hey!" He says louder, angrier. "Don't you do that! Don't you dare just stalk off like that and leave me hanging! Use your words, tell me what's wrong."

He's only met with a glare from eyes that are an irritating shade of blue.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Elsa. What's wrong?" Hans hisses as she tries ripping her hand away and tries to distance herself but he doesn't let go. Like he thought months ago, she's not getting rid of him that easily.

Just  _what_ the fuck is going on?

He takes a step forward and she thinks it's one step too many, she shrinks like she's afraid he'd steal her soul, though he's aiming more for her heart.

Elsa warns him, trembling, "Don't touch me. Don't touch me ever again or I'll – I'll ..." Her threat dies in her throat as she tried to shake his grip off her.

"Or you'll  _what_? You're already angry at me. What's the worst that could happen?" He asks and he swears he could almost laugh bitterly at the matter. Nothing in his life ever goes as smoothly as he would like it to go. "Look, I'm not trying to make things worse! I'm trying to solve whatever's happening between us! I just don't know what's going on, you need to explain, this –! This must be a misunderstanding, I didn't do anything wrong!"

"It's not a misunderstanding." She hisses this time.

"It is if I don't understand."

"Like you'll care!" Elsa spits, a venom he never imagined her to have. He had picked her for a reason.

"I do!" He grounds.

And now they're talking over each other which is freaking ridiculous because he's talking about X and she's talking about Y and this argument is getting them nowhere.  _They're going nowhere._  People are staring.

"Tell me!" He yells though it sounds more like a challenge. "Will you please stop being dramatic and  _fucking_ tell me already?!"

Her mind is reeling. She's so angry! She's  _furious_ and her mouth is loose when Elsa does as she's told.

Elsa shouts, "Months ago, you said 'nothing's wrong', but you lied to me! You held back when I asked! You pretended everything was okay when it wasn't and then have the guts to get close to me and tell me you have feelings for me?!"

But that was only the tip of the iceberg. She tells him _everything_. She tells him of Anna and the lake, she tells him of her broken trust and her wrists, she tells him of her sadness and Emma and everything in between.

When Elsa's done spilling everything out, she expects him to explode again; to throw a fit, to yell, punch and kick something, but none of that came. And she finds, him being silent was so much worst.

"Is it true?" Elsa asks, using the same words Anna had used when confronting her. "Did you really tell Jack about the lake?"

He stares blankly at her, eyes no longer bright. "I never expected him to fall."  _I never expected him to die._

* * *

"Oh, hey you." Hans greets her, a sort of fondness in his voice like they're friends. But they're not. They're far from it. It's sadistic how he talks so calmly to her, like he's not the least bit guilty.

Elsa tries to pretend he isn't there. He's dead to her, just a ghost, invisible.

"I see you still hate me." He says despite Elsa not saying a word back. There's no need though. He's not unfamiliar with a one-sided conversation. "Come on, lay it on me. Take a swing." He tells her, tapping his cheek. He's implying for her to hit him, to get all her frustrations out.

She growls, glare hardening. "Stay away from me, Hans."

"You're not going to take the opportunity to punch me?"

"I don't want to touch you." She remarks.

And he flinches. He  _actually_  finches, though he holds his tongue from saying anything that could damage what they have further. It seems, the waiting game wins in the end because Elsa turns to face him, skirt swishing with her movement, blonde braid falling over her shoulder.

"You told me, you loved me?" She asks after a moment.

"Yes," And there is no hint of hesitation in his voice as he answers her.

She thinks, he must be lying because she doesn't want to think of him as some truthful bastard.

"Why?" Elsa asks another question. So simple yet also so confusing.

"Why wouldn't I be in love with you?" Hans replies, it wasn't enough of an answer.

Her expression hardens again, and she spins the other around to make her exit.

"Well, then," Elsa hums. "I'm going to be difficult. So difficult to the point that you'd take your words back."

"And why would I do that?" Hans asks this time, hands now curled into fists. He has to make sure not to touch her. Not yet. She probably wants to bite his hand off.

"Because,"

"Because  _what_?" He challenges. "Because you're afraid you can't be loved?" He's crossed the line, even he knows it.

The way he had said it, his irritated tone, causes her jaw to click.

"No," Elsa answers. "Because I'll never love you back."

He … doesn't fall. He isn't the type to be easily toppled despite being damned.

"We'll see about that." Hans says before he quickly grabs her hand and kisses her knuckles, feather-light, then let's go off and leaves.

.

.

.

He leaves her first because he can't bear to watch her go.

* * *

Hans hasn't seen her for a whole month now. He's gone back to his old habits. Being with her made him studious, being alone made him reckless.

He's at a party – Eugene's, which wasn't much of a surprise. Hans doesn't make it to the bathroom. He collapses by the door, sliding down, too intoxicated to walk in a straight line.

 _Doesn't matter._  He tells himself.  _Door's probably locked_ , He thinks because he swears someone's making out with a bottle of champagne and another is crying over the bathroom sink. Everyone here is the same. They're all a wreck.

.

.

.

Not wanting to expose himself by the curve of his handwriting, he spends the rest of the night cutting letters out of old magazines and pasting them on paper. When his words are composed, and his letter is complete, it reads like it's written by a serial killer. He rips it apart and flushes it down the toilet, thinking he's gone mad.

.

.

.

He calls her while he's intoxicated, close to falling off the face of the universe.

"I'm sorry." Is the first thing he says to her as he holds his phone close to his mouth. It's amazing that he can even remember his passcode at this point.

Elsa holds her breath as she waits for him to say more.

"I'm sorry I couldn't fix you," He says, very much drunk.

She lets go of that breath, realising she had held it for nothing. He's a lost cause, too blind to see the real motive of her anger. She's glad that this was a phone call instead of a conversation in person. She's glad she doesn't have to look at him in the eye.

But she still kicks herself for answering, for picking up. So Elsa tries to make it up by telling Hans, "I'm not broken." She does, however, hold her tongue when she wants to add 'You are'.

"I wish I could make things better for you. I just don't know how." He tells her, voice unnaturally soft.

Fury ignites in her stomach. She sees red – flaming like his hair. Elsa  _does not want_  him to be gentle. She thinks he has  _no right_  to be gentle after breaking her heart – twice. What is the point tip-toeing around her?  **Coward!**  Do not be gentle, be real and mean it!

"You're such a –" She chokes on her own anger. Since when did she allow him to consume her? Since when did she allow him to devour her whole and make her burn with rage? "You told me you loved me but you – you're just – you're on fire!"

* * *

She's cried a lot in her lifetime. Perhaps too much. But this must be the lowest reason for her to shed tears. She cries over a boy who does not deserve it and she cries over a boy who is not enough.

Her feelings are in pieces like shattered glass on the ground; they resemble scattered reality and broken dreams.

* * *

With her temple resting against a lazy palm and legs pulled in, Elsa decides it's best that she does not return to college. It's crazy, these past two years since Jack's death. But, with the lull of the train ride, foreign music playing in her earbuds, and a book about Japan – a place she never dreams ongoing but appreciates the culture – Elsa feels that she is finally free.  

This bird has flown.

.

.

.

Elsa, like Jack Frost, disappears from Hans's life the same way snow does in Spring.

…

He's looking  _through_  her now and he wonders if she'll leave forever.

He'd hate to think of her intertwining her soul with someone else, someone better (... but deep down, secretly to his toes, he believes she deserves better than him.  _Anyone_ 's better than him).

.

.

.

 **Don't forget me** – the paper said, crinkles and old, pulled out between pages of a book she hasn't read since she was eighteen. A book she hasn't touched for the bittersweet memories it brings. It feels almost nostalgic; both something like a bad memory she  _wants_  to forget yet also something important that she  _has_  to remember. But there was no name attached to it, and  _oh_ , isn't that just the saddest part?

* * *

I know, too, why she asked me not to forget her. Naoko herself knew, of course. She knew that my memories of her would fade. Which is precisely why she begged me never to forget about her, to remember that she had existed. That thought filled me with an almost unbearable sorrow. Because Naoko never loved me.

–  **Toru Watanabe** ,  _Norwegian Wood_ , page 10

* * *

**end**

**Author's Note:**

> Notes 4: You don't have to kill me. I'm going to spend a few hours near the school I used to take my A-levels (a.k.a Hell). There's this boy that lives there, I'm convinced he wants to fight me or drag me back to Hell. I might bump into him. So if I don't update The Sleepless Elite by Saturday night, I've probably been murdered. At least, I dressed cute today so my ghost self will be fabulous.
> 
> – 16 August 2018


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